Dewey Lambdin - The French Admiral

He studied the young man that stood before his desk, swaying easy to the motion of the flagship. The flag captain was of the common opinion that the finest intelligence, the best character, and the most courage were usually found in the most attractive physical specimens, and he found nothing to dissuade this opinion in Midshipman Lewrie. The uniform was stained and faded, but that did not signify; the lad's hair was neat and clean, shorter than the usual mode and not roached back into such a severe style, the queue short and tied with a black silk ribbon, a pleasant light brown, touched blonde where the sun reached it from long service in tropic sunshine. The face was not too horsey and long, regular in appearance, the jaw not too prominent, but it was a firm jaw. The skin was tanned by sea service, and in the dim cabins, with only swaying lamps for illumination, the face was relaxed from the permanent squint sailors developed, showing the whitish chalk marks of frown lines and wrinkles-to-be in later years, held so squinted the sun could not stain them as it did the rest of the skin. And the eyes, which at first the captain believed to be aristocratic gray, now seemed more pale blue, of a most penetrating and arresting nature, windows to the restless soul within.

Had he not been in King's uniform, he would have dismissed him as one of those pretty lads more given to the theatres and low amusements of the city, almost too pretty, except for that pale scar on the cheek. As for the rest of him, the shoulders were broad without being common, and he was slim, well knit and wiry; the waist and hips were narrow, showing a good leg in breeches and stockings, instead of being beef to the heel like a gunner's mate or a representative of the lower orders. Could have been a courtier, but he gave off the redolence of a tarpaulin man.

"Hate to say so, but this report shall have to be redone." the captain said with a rueful grin that was not unkindly. "It's one thing to state the facts, but all these… adjectives and adverbs and what you may call 'ems, my word. And one does not make recommendations as to rewards for army officers, or suggestions on adopting Ferguson rifles for the Sea Service and all, you see?"

"I do, sir," Alan replied evenly, showing no fatigue or disappointment at this news. It was all one to him, tired as he was.

"The main thing is to be professional in tone, no emotions at all. Wouldn't want your contemporaries to think you were glory hunting. And none of this 'it is my sad and inconsolable duty to report that so and so passed over,' d'ya see? Tone it down and list the dead and wounded later, preceded by the phrase, 'as per margin.'"

"I list them in the margin, sir?" Alan wondered.

"No, but that is the form most preferred by Mr. Phillip Stephens, the First Secretary to the Admiralty. But you cannot address it to him, as you did, but to your captain or commanding officer."

"Forgive me my ignorance, sir, but I have never had cause to write a report on anything before, even when in temporary command of a prize."

"Well, such a report as yours shall cause a good stir back home, and in the Chronicle , I am sure, soon after, so one must adhere to the forms. I'll lend you my secretary to aid you in couching it in the proper manner, but it must be redone before I may pass it on to the admiral or post it to London."

"Aye, sir."

Admiral Hood entered the cabins at that moment, on his way aft to his own quarters under Barfleur's poop. Alan recognized him from Antigua and felt such a surge of loathing arise after witnessing the inexplicable behavior of a man with a reputation as a fighting admiral that he felt he had to bite his tongue to control his features.

"See me soon as you're through with your miscreant, sir," Hood told his flag captain.

"Not a miscreant, sir, this is Lewrie, the one in charge of those barges we picked up today."

"Ah," Hood said, peering down at him over that beaky nose from his superior height. Alan was five and three-quarter feet tall, and he was having trouble finding headroom between the beams, even here in flag country, and Hood had to stoop to even walk, yet he gave the impression of great height in spite of the nearness of the overhead. "Met you once, I think."

"At Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews' farewell ball on Antigua, sir."

"Oh, that's it. This your report?"

"Needs rewriting, sir, as I was telling him."

"Hmm," Hood said, rubbing his nose as he leaned closer to one of the swaying lamps to peruse the document. "Yes, I dare say it does need a large dose of Navalese. Still, quite an adventure."

"Aye, sir," Alan replied, too upset to worry about toadying for once. He wanted to blurt out a question of why Hood had hung back at the Battle of the Chesapeake, wanted to demand why they had not come to rescue the army, which had resulted in so much misery.

"Welcome back to the Fleet, Lewrie," Hood said, tossing the draft of the report down and walking off aft.

"Well, do your best with this," the flag captain said.

"Aye, sir. Er, excuse me, sir, but would you happen to know if the Desperate frigate made it out as well, or what happened to her?"

"Oh, yes, she was your ship." The captain frowned. "Off to New York for a quick refit, but she made it."

"I would wish to get back aboard as soon as I could, sir."

"Yes, quite understandable." The captain frowned again, as though there were something wrong. "Well, that's all for now, Lewrie. Have that report back to me before the forenoon watch tomorrow."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"I'm free now, sir," the flag captain told Hood in the admiral's day cabin after tidying up the last of the paperwork necessary for the proper nautical administration of fourteen sail of the line and all their artillery, men and officers, their provisioning and discipline.

"Good," Hood said, seated at ease behind his desk. "Before I forget, make a note regarding that young man, what was his name?"

"Lewrie, sir?"

"Yes. Seems a promising sort, did he not strike you so?" Hood asked.

"A most promising young man, sir, indeed," the flag captain said with a pleased expression, gratified that he was such a discerning judge of his fellow man that even Admiral Samuel Hood agreed with his opinion.

Near the end of the month Alan reported back aboard Desperate .

He was free of the Chiswicks, free of the land once more, back in the dubious bosom of the Navy for good and all, reporting back aboard his own ship to a sea of familiar faces. Railsford was there to welcome him, pumping his paw heartily. Peck the marine officer, Mister Monk the sailing master, Coke the bosun, and his mates Weems and Toliver, Knatchbull and Sitwell and Hogan 1 from the fo'c's'le guns, Hogan 2 from the loblolly boys, Tuckett and Cony laughing and waving at him, Mr. Dorne and the purser Mister Cheatham making shines over his reappearance. Even David Avery was there once he had gotten below, to clasp him to him as though he had arisen from the dead.

"Lord, what a pack of iron!" David laughed, offering him a glass of Black Strap as Alan unpacked his canvas sea bag of the pair of dragoon pistols, his own smaller pistols, cutlass, and all the tools that went along with the weapons, including bullet molds for the odd calibers.

"And all of it damned useful at one time or another," Alan told his friend. "How the hell did you escape Yorktown?"

"When the storm blew up, I was washed downriver and thumped into the ship just before she cut her cables. They threw down a line and we got towed out into the bay," David related. "Spent the night bouncing on the waves and the wake like a chariot being drawn by Poseidon's horses. Did you see anything of Carey?"

"Only at the boat landing before my last trip." Alan sighed. "I suppose he's a prisoner by now, if he lived."